The Eye Of Every Storm
by enjoiturbulence
Summary: PostCocktails. Jim gets a call that forces him to reevaluate where he stands in the world, with who he is.
1. Chapter 1

**The Eye of Every Storm**

_(Don't own some characters, own others. Don't front.) _

It was coming up on midnight and there was still another twenty miles to go until they got home. Conversation had slowed like a dry creek bed. Jim's I-Pod was playing through his radio, a weird track of ambient rock under a bit of spoken word by a guy who sounds like he's lived through hell and went back for seconds. "We are trapped in the belly of this horrible machine," he says, "and the machine is bleeding to death," and it's all Karen can do but concentrate on hearing the road noise above the depression seeping from the car's speakers.

The cocktail party was fun, Karen thought, and she said so aloud every few minutes to break the silence, because Jim wasn't doing anything to help. She couldn't quite place what happened to make him pull inward. The jokes she had pulled on him, maybe, but he has a good sense of humor, that's one of the main reasons she is with him.

"I'm just a bit tired," he said, and she thought she could believe it. The way his lids hung low, he looked about ready to slump forward into the steering wheel.

She hoped he'd make it back, because if she had her way, their night was far from over. She was warming herself with thoughts of what she would do to him when his phone began to ring in his coat pocket. She didn't bother to hide her curiosity when he looked at the caller ID, nor when he answered.

"Hey man, what's going on?" he said to the person on the other end. "Not much, just heading home from a business party. It was alright. You're scaring me, man. Shit. When'd it happen? How long? Yeah, I can do that. Definitely. Shit, man, I'll survive. No, I want to be there. Everything's ready? Tomorrow morning? Of course, man. Alright. I'll talk to you then."

"Who was that?" Karen asked with unresolved curiosity. In response, Jim turned up the volume on the I-Pod, a move that instantly infuriated her. She snatched the device and unplugged it from the radio, sending the car into silence.

"I was listening to that."

"Don't you dare fucking ignore me. Who was that?" In her heart, she knew she was being irrational and that this was just going to lead to more uncomfortable but necessary talks.

"They were just about to hit the crescendo."

"Aren't you going to answer me?"

"Once they get there, it's like you're riding a wave. Only, it's about to break and throw you underneath, like the whole damn ocean is pulling you down."

"Why can't you just be honest? It's a simple question," she said with a practiced tone meant to calm and sooth the situation, if only to make her not hate herself anymore than she already does. "Can't we just talk like adults for once?"

"I'm sick of talking." And she knows he is.

"Guess I am to," she says with a sigh. It's weird, she thinks, that she doesn't want to cry in that moment. Maybe it'll come when she's alone in her apartment, when she can't feel his warmth.

"My dad will be dead within forty-eight hours."


	2. Chapter 2

The Eye of Every Storm

He's at the airport some thirty minutes before boarding when he spots the bar and thinks he could use a drink at that moment. Mind you, Jim's not usually a drinker. The occasional beer, sure, but he had the taste for something a bit stronger at that time, so he sits before the tender and orders a whiskey on the rocks. That lead to two more before boarding began, so he pays the tender, heads over and five minutes later he's in his seat. First class, that was impressive. Gets another whiskey before take off and then he notices the fog, and he's gone for the next few hours, waking up to see the English landscape below the plane as they head towards London.

He stands at the baggage claim for a few minutes before he remembers the only thing he brought over was on his back. There's a Starbucks within sight so he gets a cup of coffee, black, and sits for a moment, slowly sipping when there's a tap on his shoulder. The man behind him is a few inches shorter than him, but still tall, midnight-dark skin and long dreads to his waist.

"Oy, kid," the man says, his accent British with a slight bit of African harshness.

"Hey Bill."

"Have a good flight?"

"Passed out for the majority of it."

"That qualifies as a good flight."

"I guess. Where's Jonathan?"

"At the hospital. Said you wouldn't mind if I came to get you."

"Course I don't," Jim says as he gets up. Bill starts walking toward the exit and Jim falls in step beside him. "How's that little girl of yours?"

"Beautiful. I'll show you a picture in the car."

"I'd like that."

"Don't get to see her as much as I'd like." They walk out through the front entrance and Bill's ride is illegally parked there, in plain view of the security guards and cops, who don't even say a word as they get in.

"Why's that?"

"Her mother went back to Nigeria."

"Damn, man."

"Is what it is." He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, where he brings forth the promised photo, of a beautiful little girl with chocolate skin lighter than her father's.

"She's lovely."

"That's for sure. I've already made sure she'll be getting into only the best schools. She says she wants to be a doctor. How're you doing?" Jim hands the photo back to Bill, who slides it back into his wallet before starting the car and pulling out.

"Not too sure at this juncture."

"Has it sunk in yet?"

"Probably will when I see him. How's Jonathan doing?"

"Doing okay, I guess. You know him."

"Yeah." They don't talk again until they get to the hospital, where Bill again parks illegally, though not in the way of any emergency vehicles.

"I'll wait down here, give you cats a ride when you're done."

"Thanks, Bill," Jim says, holding out his hand, which Bill takes. "It's good to see you again."

"For sure. Wish it could have been under better circumstances."

"Yeah." Jim nods before turning an entering the hospital, heading straight for the front desk and telling the nurse, "I'm here to see Charles Chinaski."

The nurse looks down at her computer and types something quickly before looking back up at Jim and saying, "He'd be in room 412."

"Thank you." He spots the elevator and heads up, the car empty except for him. He counts his breaths, one in with each new floor. At the fourth he follows the signs and there he his, Charles Chinaski, his face horribly bruised along the left side, tubes up his nose and down his throat, the machine to his right silently indicating a steady but weak heartbeat, the man in the chair by his bed looking up from his copy of Milton when Jim walks in.

"Hey there, kid."

"Hey Jonathan." They shake hands and a quick hug. Jonathan is about five years older than Jim, his brown hair not at all long and shaggy but cut short, as if he'd trimmed it himself. His green eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, were dull and red.

"Glad you could make it so quickly." He pockets the book in his camelhair coat.

"How long?"

"His kin from Israel will be here in a day. They insist we not be here when they arrive."

"They're going to have them pull the plug."

"Yep. He's been brain-dead since they brought him in, so really, the machines here are just for show."

"What happened to him?"

"Hit by a bus. Walked right in front of the thing, it seems."

"Was he strung out?"

"Nah. Seems he spent his time there in Israel kicking."

"Sure."

"I talked with the doctors. His tox screen was clean. Sober as the day he was born."

"That's good, I guess."

"Yeah. How're you doing?"

"Bill asked me the same thing."

"What'd you tell him?"

"That I wasn't sure. How're you?"

"I don't know, son. It's weird. Not like I saw him much growing up. Never really thought of him as 'Dad', you know? But still, he was, and I know he loved me, in his way. Loved you too. Whenever I talked to him, always went on about how proud he was of you."

"He'd tell me the same things about you. On and on about the things you'd do, about how even if they weren't necessarily legal, you were your own man always."

"He said that?" Jonathan asked, a thin smile spreading on his lips.

"Yeah."

"Guess we'll just have to get used to the thought he's not out there."

"Guess we will."

"I can't sit here, anymore," Jonathan said, looking about the room. "I've said my goodbyes. You want a moment?"

"Yeah."

"I'll meet you outside."

"Okay." Jonathan closes the door behind him and Jim sits where his brother had been. He takes in how the old man in the bed looks, so close to the end, kept alive only by the machines. His wrinkled skin thin but tan. The bruise along his face dark with blood. Gray hair along the sides of his dome. The great Charles Chinaski, subject to the whims of his Israeli children, brothers and sisters Jim Halpert didn't know, and cold as it were, had no inclination to know. The machines silently keep on keeping on. The sky outside the hospital window grows darker and rain is coming on soon. He rises from the chair, puts a hand on his father's cold forehead, and says something to himself that could be considered a prayer. A kiss to the brow and one look back is the last he'll see of his father.

Jim skips the elevator and slowly walks down four flights, softly walking out the lobby to where Jonathan Chinaski and Bill Bones are leaning against Bill's ride, smoking. Jonathan tosses his smoke to the ground when he sees Jim, claps him on the shoulder and opens the door for his brother. Jim in the back, Bill driving and Jonathan looking out the window, rain trailing slowly and obscuring his view.

"You in the mood for a brew?" Jonathan asked.

"Just said one last goodbye to my father. Could use one, sure. Where's Nigel?"

"He's at the pub, keeping Courtney company until we arrive."

"Courtney's still around these parts? Thought he went legit?"

"Technically, yeah, but his type never completely leaves the life behind. We can't all be like you, brother." Jim doesn't know quite how to respond, so he doesn't, simply rides for a moment, looking out at London but not seeing it.

It's three in the morning, and Pam's not asleep. She's got a bottle of wine some time ago and turned on the TV to some random channel, watching whatever comes on. The wine is almost gone. She's tired and cold and no where near drunk enough but doesn't want to go to bed, doesn't want to turn on the heat or get a blanket, but she wants more wine.

There comes a knock on her door, soft on the wood so she knows it's not Roy. She knows who she wishes it was but knows it isn't him; she's not that deserving of such luck. The knock comes again, so she gets up from the couch and crosses her living room to the front door, not even looking outside to check who it was before undoing all the locks. When she opens the door, Karen is holding a bag with a few bottles of cheap wine. She looks lost, like a dog who had lost it's scent home in the rain.

"Want to get drunk?" she asks.

"Sounds good to me." Pam turns and lets the woman into her home. She closes the door and redoes all the locks. When she turns, she sees Karen looking at the almost empty bottle of wine and the television on to an infomercial.

"Bad night?"

"Something like that. You?"

"Yeah. I think I'm a horrible person. Why the bad night?"

"Realized the man I loved for ten years was a monster. Why are you a horrible person?"

"Kind of broke up with my boyfriend right after he was told his father is dying." Somehow, Pam is able to not react to the news.

"Wow."

"I win, huh?"

"I guess."


	3. Chapter 3

The Eye of Every Storm

He screams. Nah. It's a fucking roar. He roars as he pulls back his right hand, as he squeezes it into a tightly-bound fist and brings it down into the man's jaw, pulls back on the left, repeats until the face is meat, until the body's no longer writhing, until he's tired and his hands hurt and the blood has mixed. Then he pulls back and starts again.

A bump brings him from the dream. His head against the cool window. Bill driving and Jonathan smoking and in Jim, well, that pain in his head can only really be fixed by one thing, and that one thing is what they're heading for.

The pub is near empty, but still they head through the dining room to a backroom, towards a voice booming that can be heard from outside the front door. That'd be Courtney.

When the three walk into the backroom, Courtney is sitting across from Nigel, going on about some kid who tried to by dope from him. "He comes up to me and says, 'Motherfucker', my words, 'Motherfucker, you know where I can get some disco biscuits around here'? Me, well, I tell him I'm holding, lead him down an ally, and smash his Cambridge ass against the bricks and take his notes with me." The way he laughs, loud and boisterous, they know every word of his story was true. He puffs on his quite expensive cigar and looks up from Nigel to see who just came in.

"Jesus fucking Christ, is that who the fuck I think it is? Jimmy Halpert, as I live and breath." He's on his feet and Jim takes him in. It's been years since he's had the pleasure of Courtney's company. The man is early fifties, fashionably shaved dome, two inches of scar by his right eye. He crosses the room in a stride and takes Jim in his arms like they're family. They are, but not blood.

"Hey Court. Good to see you, man."

"Fucking-A right. Hate the circumstances, you know, but it is always good to see you, boy." He waves a hand to the table he and Nigel were sitting at, and the three join the party, Bill and Jonathan exchanging greetings with the two as they sit. A waitress comes in and before anyone can say anything else, Courtney says, "They'll have three of the black stuff."

"Three Guinness', right up, sir."

"Thank you, doll." He watches her ass as she leaves.

* * *

From her bedroom window, Pam watched the sunrise over Scranton while sipping a glass of tepid water. She's tired but still, can't sleep, though the cause is different from the night.

* * *

"I first met Chinaski in '62. He was doing a stint with Sun Ra, playing trumpet in his Arkestra or whatever the fuck it was he called his band. Boy lost his damn plot. He could wail. Went up to him once they finished their set, telling him how much I enjoyed his playing. Was the truth, to be sure. Hate to say, your father, well, he asked if I knew where a man could buy, and at that point in time I was still a punk, still dealing. This was before the Russians were selling anything worth a damn and the Asians had a hand in it, so a man could make a decent living slinging, which is what I did at the time." The cigar was down to his fingers, but Courtney made no moves to put it out.

"I got to know Charlie Chinaski pretty well over the years. Was glad to help his boys out when I could. I want to let you two know, and this is hard for a man of my station to admit, but when I heard about the fate of the man, I cried. Cried like a little pussy, I did. And it's from the bottom of my heart that I say this: boys, you need anything, and I do fucking well mean anything, all you've to do is ask."

* * *

Karen was asleep on her couch. The woman could snore, that was for sure. It was a bitter laugh that escaped Pam's lips when she thought about how Jim had handled it, but when she considered some of the things the passed out woman had said on where the whole situation stood now, the bile in her stomach was calm. It was barely six in the morning, either too early or too late to be holding her cell phone, contemplating whether or not to make the call.

"Fuck it," she said in a hoarse whisper.

* * *

Before they left the pub, Courtney took Jim aside and presented him with a small box.

"What's this?"

"Late birthday present."

"You even know when my birthday is?"

"Does it fucking matter? Open it."

"Knuckle dusters?"

"My favorite pair. See there, that notch there? Took that from Mad Fraser's teeth as I got back what he owed me."

"You always surprise me, Court."

* * *

"Jim? Hey, it's Pam. Guess you kind of realized that? Karen told me what happened. All of it, I guess. Don't know if you really wanted me to know, I guess. I don't know. It's, like six in the morning and I haven't been to sleep yet. Can't. Too much on my mind. Jim, it's over between me and Roy. I'm a fucking fool, Jim. Thought it could be different between us. Thought I could love him. Jim, he knows we kissed. I thought if I was honest, things could work. He went nuts, trashing the bar. We were at a bar, by the way. Poor Richards. Looks like I can't go back there again. Chili's all over again. Jim, you need to be careful. He, shit, I think he might try to hurt you. I told him I kissed you, that I had feelings for you. It's the truth, Jim. Still is." 


	4. Chapter 4

"Life goes on," Jonathan said as they left the pub, walking out into the cold dark. He took a smoke from his pack and handed it to Jim, who hesitated a moment before drawing one out and placing it between his lips. Jonathan took out his Zippo and lit his brother's smoke before his own, inhaling as the leaves caught aflame. "Life goes on, and there's work to do."

"What sort of work?" Jim asked.

"Debt collection," Nigel, who had joined them as they left the pub, said with a grin plastered over his lopsided face; a scar on his right side where the ear should be, his nose crooked, a faded scar at the corner of his mouth from being fish hooked.

"Debt collection?"

"Martin Blake owes us a good bit of money, and he's not paid up yet," Jonathan adds.

"So, we're going to force the issue?"

"That's my boy." And they're off, walking and talking and smoking through a residential area, expensive cars and apartments with million pound leases. They find what may be the most costly townhouse there and Jonathan knocks on the door before taking a step back. A couple beats and a woman, blonde hair and too much surgery, opens the door.

"Yes?" She says, the subtext being that it's late and why the fuck are you hoods here?

"Is Mister Blake in?" Jonathan asks in a faux-Cockney accent that is surprisingly menacing.

"Martin," she yells and there he is, tall but thin in every sense: thinning hair, thin build, thin features.

"Go back to bed, sweetie," he says, not moving his eyes from the four of them, his voice distant.

"Martin?"

"Go back to bed," and it's an order she's not willing to deny.

"Evening, gov'na," Jonathan says.

"What do you want?"

"You fucking well know what I want, Blake," Jonathan said, dropping the accent. "Take a walk with us." Bill grabs the man's shoulders and leads him out so he can't refuse. Nigel closes the door and they set off down the block, Blake flanked by Bill and Nigel, Jonathan ahead, leading, and Jim to the rear, his hand in his pocket, idly tracing the knuckle duster's outline.

Jim, he knows where this is heading. This guy is old money, bored with his life, drugs are beneath him, women of the night too risky, so he goes to Jonathan and bets money that doesn't just belong to him, but his wife, kids, whole family, bets the money on rugby and football matches, hoping for one big score, for a thrill to liven the ennui. And so he comes into Jonathan's world. Jim's heart is racing just thinking of what's to come.

* * *

Karen's stirring. Murmurings from her dream's aftermath. Coughing, moaning once she's aware enough of her body to feel that pain in her head, sharp, electric. The cotton she must have swallowed as she slept. Pam was drinking her fourth cup of tea when she noticed.

Dawn.

* * *

"Marty, dear Marty, you, of all fucking people, should know how this works," Jonathan said as he paced back and forth before the shaking and sobbing Blake. "The shake-down, it's a time-honored ritual, and we've been through this before. We threaten you, rough you up if that doesn't work, and in the end, you give us the money, and that's that. So, you want to get down to the paying up or shall we go through the motions?"

"I just-"

"Just need some more time? That it?"

"Yeah, Johnny, just a bit more."

"Hey, Jim," Jonathan said.

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you and Mister Blake here have some fun."

* * *

"God in heaven, how much did I have to drink last night?" Karen asked when she finally came too and joined Pam at her kitchen table, one cup of coffee at the ready.

"I think we went through two bottles of wine last night, so you had at least one to yourself," Pam said before blowing on her steaming up of tea and taking a sip.

"And how the hell are you so bright and cheery?"

"Didn't actually get to sleep last night."

"You alright?"

"Yeah, just-"

"Some stuff on your mind?" Karen interrupted.

"I guess."

"Just remember what I said last night."

"Do you remember what you said last night?"

"I remember the gist of it. What I wanted to say. Follow your gut, and you'll be golden. Just remember what I told you."

"Thanks, Karen."

"Of course."

With a begrudged smile, Karen leaves for home, to bathe and sleep away the hangover. When she's alone, Pam turns on a radio to classical music, soft strings and piano

* * *

"Look at you, man," Jim said, pointing to the crying Blake. "You're fucking pathetic. I just want to have a word with you real quick. You be cool, you'll be fine. Where do you work?"

This was the game, the rush Jim got on the rare occasion at Dunder-Mifflin when he got a great sale, when the mark didn't want to buy, didn't want to consider buying, but Jim just worked up the mark and made him sign on the dotted line.

"I don-" Blake mumbled.

"I asked you a question, Martin," Jim said in a soft tone that was also forceful.

Blake mumbled another half answer. With speed that impressed both Bill and Nigel, Jim smacked Blake with the back of his hand. A slight trickle of blood came forth from his lips.

"I work under the Minister of Constitutional Affairs. Please, don't hit me again."

"I wouldn't have had to hit you the first time had you just answered the fucking question," Jim yelled, before taking a quick breath and calming. "You hear that, Johnny?"

"Buddy works in the government. Nice job, few responsibilities, probably."

"Yeah, but you remember what our Pop used to say."

"What's that?"

"A favor can be more valuable than gold."

"I believe he did say something like that."

"Yeah. Now, you've got yourself here at bonefide government employee. There has to be someway this pathetic piece of trash can do something for you. That is, if you were to decide and give him an extension on his debt."

"I don't know about that, Jimmy-boy. He owes us a good bit of money, and he's already behind on payments."

"No doubt. Fucker probably has to lie to his wife and tell her it's for his mistress, but just think about it. This guy is relatively high-up. There's a wealth of things you could get him to do for you."

"You know, I think you're right. What do you think, Marty? Two week extension for a favor payable at some unidentified point in the future?"

"Yeah," he said in a rush, "yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Of course, Johnny. Anything."

"Alright then," Jonathan said, holding out his hand. Blake eagerly took it and shook vigorously. "Good, now. Run on home."

Blake complied.

* * *

Some more drink in him, Jim spent the majority of the flight asleep, his head against the cold window, the hum of the engines and fellow passengers and he dreams of a girl with curly hair and red cheeks and not the girl he might have broke up with some hours before. The dream is him and her in a club, dark like an opium den, smoke curling under the dim lights, and Charles Chinaski is on stage, playing softly on his trumpet. That's the dream, and he's not too sure about it's meaning, if it has one, but then there's the pain in his side and it's Jonathan and he's bleary-eyed and he's saying, "Time to buckle-up." Bill and Nigel are across the aisle, calm and they've both just woken up.

"Captain says we'll be landing in just a bit."


End file.
